


Dream Sweeter Dreams

by WordsFromAsh



Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: F/M, Feyre and Rhys send notes back and forth, Hurt/Comfort, Mentioned Cassian, Post-ACOMAF, feyre has a nightmare involving Amarantha's second task and the Book of Breathings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-04
Updated: 2017-04-04
Packaged: 2018-10-14 20:55:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,729
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10544190
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WordsFromAsh/pseuds/WordsFromAsh
Summary: The first night back at Spring and Feyre finds herself with a new nightmare to keep her company. It's a good thing she's not truly alone this time.





	

_All those eyes resting on her, waiting for her to fail this more menial task. She just had to solve those words. But her lips fumbled to form the sounds and she was as good as illiterate again. And then the cries of her friend started—desperate and pleading, expecting too, too much out of her—all the while the spikes borne down on them. Closer and closer until—_

Feyre squeezed her eyes tighter—tight enough to elicit fireworks across the back of her lids—as she retched once more into the toilet. It was a good ten minutes now at least that she’d been at this. Long enough that it was more stomach acid than food coming up and even that was dwindling into dry heaves.

The contents of her stomach may have cleared out, but her head was still full of the nightmare that woke her. Between the bouts of vomiting, different details would resurface and cause her stomach to clench once more and her throat to burn. It was exhausting, but for now there was a moment of reprieve.

Feyre spat in hope to rid herself of at least the bitter aftertaste of bile to no avail before she flushed. Her body was tired and she could feel the fatigue leaden her muscles in a terrible way that not even post-sparring could do. She slumped against the toilet and allowed herself a moment before she’d have to inevitably return to bed. The cool porcelain of the seat felt refreshing against her hot cheek.

It was pathetic, really. Her first night away from home and the nightmares already seized her again. New ones, too. Ones that she couldn’t manage yet because she couldn’t return to bed knowing that everyone was safe. Not when it hadn’t been Lucien in her nightmares that had been strapped down and his life placed into her incapable hands, but Cassian. His wings undone as the spikes pierced through the fragile membrane.

Feyre balled her hand into a fist and bit down on her tongue to stop from crying. It didn’t stop the stinging sensation that always came before the tears though. It was her fault that he was injured now. Both Cassian and Azriel.  And her sisters. That, too, was all blood on her hands.

There was a hesitant nudge in her chest, coming not from nightmare-swept panic, but the buried and weakened bond. That was another fault of hers—straining their bond and breaking the bargain—even if it had saved their lives for now.

It was harder to keep those tears at bay, feeling the bond alive right then. Between throwing up earlier she’d made the mistake of looking to her left hand for the comfort of the bargain tattoo with that all-seeing eye only to find blank skin. Another reminder of what happened earlier that day and a reminder of her nightmare.

Feyre instead stared at her other hand where she dropped the glamour on her tattoo marking her the High Lady of Night. The design was stark against her skin and the porcelain. Her eyes followed the swirls as they intersected up her arm. Thank the Mother she had this to anchor her.

Flexing her fingers, she tugged back on the bond hoping to send the message that she was as okay as one could be in her situation. There was no response and she thought that was that and would take it for what it was worth. She was lucky she could interact with him at all after all they went through that day.

But then there was the clink of glass. Feyre’s heart thudded expecting an unwanted visitor this late at night coming to check in on her, but all she saw was the empty darkness… and a short glass of water sitting on the edge of the counter. A black washcloth was folded neatly beside it.

Something inside her stirred and Feyre wasn’t sure whether it was something breaking or whether it was something growing so exponentially that it hurt. Rhys. He’d sent her these. He was on the opposite end of Prythian and he sent her water and a cloth for her to clean up with. It was as sweet as it was reckless.

Those tears threatened to well up again.

Feyre pushed herself up off the toilet and reached for the cloth first. When she dragged it over the edge she was surprised when a small cardstock fluttered off it and a pen hit the floor with a sound that was too loud in the otherwise silence of the night. She paused. First, out of instinct as if anyone could have heard that—though if they didn’t come running over her retching, they wouldn’t over a pen dropping—and then because she realized Rhys had written to her.

 

_She couldn’t read the words. Amarantha didn’t know, couldn’t have known that weakness of hers. Feyre stood there as Lucien’s pleading for his life morphed into Cassian’s panicked support. He thought she could do this. Why did he think she could do this? She looked up and found Rhys, hoping for him to give her the answer but he only looked expectantly at her. There was too much faith and trust. She couldn’t. She couldn’t—_

 

Feyre shook her head. Her stomach tightened, but nothing found its way into her throat, thank the Mother. She could. Rhys taught her to read himself. She had favorite books now and was discovering new ones when time allowed. She passed a number of notes with him before. She could read.

Still, the fears in the nightmare felt real and lingered around the edges of her mind like cobwebs. The anxieties of it slipped through to her and she was scared that she’d look at that note and find herself illiterate again, unable to make sense of the loops and slants of his writing. It would be just another way she was cut off from Rhys.

She wiped her mouth with the cloth, eyes never leaving the paper. Finally, Feyre grabbed the pen and note, though she made sure not to look at it, and carefully stood. She dropped the washcloth in the sink—she’d have to burn it at some point before morning, just as a precaution—and grabbed the glass of water. A quick swish and spit and she made her way out of the bathing room and back into the bedroom.

She sat next to the large window. It was cracked open to allow a sickly-sweet breeze in, but it was graciously cool against her clammy skin. Feyre leaned against the even cooler glass as she turned the note over in her hand.

Rhys would be worried if she didn’t respond soon.

Feyre closed her eyes and flipped the note over one last time so the writing was up. A deep breath to steel herself (I can read, she reminded herself), and she peeked at the elegant handwriting of her mate. Elegant handwriting that she could understand _._ Her chest felt lighter already.

_Just because we’re apart doesn’t mean you should be alone during a nightmare. Are you okay?_

Feyre bit her lip to keep from smiling. The pen was a familiar weight in her hand by now much like one of her many paintbrushes. _Thank you, but you shouldn’t have taken the risk. I’m fine. Just a nightmare. Sorry for waking you._

The note vanished along with the pen. It did not take long for them to return on her lap. There was no hesitation before reading it this time: _You didn’t wake me. Do you want to talk about it?_

Her grip tightened on the note.

 

_She couldn’t feel anything. Rhys looked pointedly at her, but she couldn’t feel a tingle down the bond or down her arm telling her which lever. Too much faith. Too much pressure. The spikes were too low, much lower than she remembered them reaching before. And then Cassian’s screaming started. The sound hurt her. He wouldn’t just scream over anything, not with that pride of his. It rattled her. She wanted to press her hands against her ears, but it was too late for that._

 

_Is Cassian okay?_ She wrote and then stared at the spot where the note had disappeared from. And she waited on edge for the response. Each second that passed by made her nightmare feel more tangible.

Her fingers tapped on her knee until finally Feyre tried to distract herself by staring up at the sky. She knew what Rhys meant now when he said all those months ago that their court had the most phenomenal night skies. While it was nice here, there weren’t as many stars as she was used to. There were no deep blues and purples that weaved through the empty spaces left between the stars. This sky here looked like an amateur tried to recreate the Night Court’s own sky, but she would take it for any sense of comfort and familiarity.

Feyre didn’t know how long she waited tapping and staring, but when Rhys’s note reappeared, it was on a fresh piece of paper. There had been more than enough space on the previous paper still. _We got healers to them in time. Azriel will make a full recovery. We are waiting on Cassian’s wings. He will live._

Thank the Mother. Feyre let out a sigh at the news, though guilt trickled into her gut for not asking about Azriel. He would be fine as well. They all had made it out alive. They were damaged and alive because of her.

Another note appeared. _What happened in your nightmare?_

There was a ghost of worry in the bond. There and gone as she read the note.

Feyre reached for the glass of water and took another sip. Cool and refreshing—hopefully enough so that it would clear her mind some.

If she didn't want to talk about it, she knew she didn't have to. But she also knew talking about things before had helped immensely. And it wasn’t like Rhys hadn’t seen firsthand all her other nightmares when she could not control her thoughts and held no understanding of the bond or its capabilities. But the blood on her hands then hadn’t been his family’s. She had accomplished the tasks then. She had freed everyone including him.

The bond warmed, that same sense of love that had plucked at her when Feyre had first returned to the manor earlier that day.

A deep breath and Feyre braced herself and wrote: _It was the second task. Except instead of the riddle, I had to read from The Book of Breathings. Cassian replaced Lucien and I couldn’t figure it out in time. There was no bond between us and the spikes tore his wings. ~~And you~~_

Feyre scratched out the beginnings of the next sentence. She didn’t want to write about the grief on Rhys’s face as soon as Cassian’s screams began. How before she woke up in a cold sweat and ran to the bathroom, all she saw was Rhys’s intense violet eyes pinning her like the spikes would soon enough. His accusing stare was significantly more painful.

A part of her was scared that writing that part down would make it true.

Feyre sent the note away and immediately felt a weight press on the bond—longing, sorrow, and guilt. They reverberated in her like the thickest string sung on an instrument. She paused on that feeling before she picked up the first note he had sent, reread that everyone was okay, and burned it in her hand. A gentle breeze carried the ashes away and into the garden below.

It did not take long for the next message to return to her. Feyre hesitated once again before she picked it up. She tilted it to read it beneath the lackluster moonlight—it was nearly a full moon and it should have been brighter. It _would’ve_ been brighter back home.

_None of today was your fault, Feyre. The book was a large mistake on my part, not yours. It was your quick thinking and brilliant acting that are the reasons we’re alive right now. I am so incredibly proud of and amazed by you, Feyre._

Feyre swiped at her eyes with the back of her wrist, refusing to let the tears that burned fall. Nightmares and vomiting on her first night away from home was already too pathetic, she still refused to add crying to that list. Not even if those tears were because her mate knew her well enough that those were her worries. Or that he tried to shoulder the blame himself even though she had made plenty of her own mistakes. She would not cry even as she could close her eyes and picture the way he’d look at her—violet eyes tender and concern pulling the corners of his lips down. It replaced the cool, accusing stare from her nightmare that said _This is your fault._

The nightmare was a nightmare and Rhys would never blame her like that. Even now he had faith in her choices and abilities, but more importantly, he was _understanding._ He was _proud_ of her.

One more swipe at the inside corner of her eyes with the tips of her fingers and Feyre responded the only way she could: _I love you and miss you._

She wanted to hug him and be tucked away in his arms and hidden behind the tent of his wings. She just wanted to sit next to him and talk and hear his voice, not read his handwriting. She wanted him and home and everything that came with it.

Another note. _I love and miss you, too. Now as much as I’d like to keep up our little correspondence, if you’re feeling better, I think we both should try to get some sleep and dream sweeter dreams._

And she did feel better. Her stomach and mind settled for now. The near-constant presence of tears made her eyes ache for any kind of sleep.

Feyre pulled her knees up to her chin. Her arms wrapped around them and held the note so that she could read those words over again and again and again. She wished she could keep that note as a reminder while here, but it would be too risky and she would not make another mistake.

She looked away from the note and to her room. Her dark and peaceful little room that was still preserved from her days spent in Spring. The messy sheet-strewn bed ruined the idyllic scene of a serene night.

Then Feyre wrote her last note for the night. _Don’t let it go to your head, but I do feel better, thank you. Sweet dreams, Rhys._ She added a childish heart to the end of it and sent it.

She thought could feel the slight wave of laughter and knew she felt something akin to a soft goodnight kiss down the bond. Feyre bent her head down so her forehead rested on her knees and savored those warm feelings sent to her.

She was not alone this time. Even if Feyre had to burn all the notes and continued to dream of twisted memories that violently woke her nightly to an empty room, she would never truly be alone. Not when she had Rhys a note and bond away and the knowledge that her family was safe and recovering. They would all work together to correct the mistakes made today. They were all dreamers after all and dreamers were survivors.

Feyre, too. She was a dreamer plagued with nightmares, but a dreamer all the same. Even if the nightmares had returned for now, Feyre would face them as they came, but would not wither before them like last time. She could read. She could thrive. She would survive.

At some point Feyre finally dragged herself from the night sky and the window and returned to her too small and too cold bed. She steeled herself for the possibility of returning to the scene she woke from. Instead, she simply dreamt. Of the days where she’d only hear laughter and the only thing staining her hands would be her paints. Of all the family dinners they’d live to see together and of an eternity with love found in fond violet eyes.


End file.
